Out to the Woodshed
by alexofthegarden
Summary: Left behind in Martin's cabin after spending the night preparing for their dad and Martin's hunt, Sam and Dean settle in for some well-earned relaxation. Until they both discover that in their exhaustion, what they'd really earned was a trip to the woodshed. (Warning: Parental Discipline/Corporal Punishment of minors)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

 **This story is completely inspired by Sam's reaction to this quote by Martin Creaser to Sam in Season 8 Episode 9: Citizen Fang:**

 **"Glad your dad wasn't around to hear that. He'd have a mind to take you both out to the woodshed and show you what's what. Half inclined to do it myself."**

 **I feel that for Martin to say this, and for Sam to have the violent reaction to it that he did, there must have been history. This is that story.**

* * *

"Thank you, boys," John said, taking the two fully loaded duffels off the kitchen table where Sam and Dean were sitting, exhausted. He slung one over his shoulder and held the other. "It's good to know I can count on you."

"Yes, sir," Dean beamed and even Sam looked pleased at the praise. "Are you sure I can't come with you? My shot's right on target nearly every time."

John smiled at his fifteen year old. "I know it is, son, and that's exactly why I need you here, looking out for Sammy. Martin's being nice enough to let you boys stay in his cabin while we hunt, but you're in the middle of a deserted woods. Who's gonna protect him if you're not here?"

Dean looked over at his little brother. As much as he wanted to hunt, he understood that making sure Sam was safe was what he needed to do to let his Dad take care of the monsters. For now, at least, it was the most important job he had. His time in the field would come.

"Car's all loaded," Martin said, coming back in through the front door. The hunter had never asked for much, but he'd called two days ago for help, and their dad hadn't even hesitated to drive himself and the boys halfway across the country.

"Ready, John?"

"Yeah." John gave the second duffle to Martin then turned back to the boys. "We'll only be gone a few days. The fridge and the pantry are fully stocked. You shouldn't need anything else, but you've got the radio to get in touch with Bobby if you do, right? He can get in touch with us if he has to, but only if he absolutely has to. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Dean responded.

Martin pointed a finger at them, eyes narrowing. "You break anything in my cabin, I'll break you."

Dean looked around. The place consisted of only a kitchenette connected to a living room, where the boys had been set up with a pullout couch, a bathroom, a guest room and Martin's bedroom. Aside from animal trophies on the walls, books, and clothing, there was very little to break.

Still, Sam looked to Dean like he was as nervous as if the place was made of glass. "Yes, sir," the kid answered quietly, and Dean's forehead creased. He wasn't sure if it was Dad leaving or Martin threatening them that had his little brother squirming in his seat.

"Be good, boys," was the last order from John, and then the men were gone.

Sam and Dean sat still, staring at the door until they heard the rumble of the Impala's engine as they drove away.

Sam turned to his brother. "Now what?"

In seemingly one motion, Dean glided over to the living room, grabbed a magazine from the coffee table, and flopped down on the folded pull-out couch. "Now, we rest."

"But Dean..." Sam stood up and looked around at the open books scattered everywhere, potion ingredients spilled and still uncorked, and of course, the mess the boys had left behind on the kitchen table, loading the casings with salt and finishing the silver bullets. "Don't you think we should clean all this up? Dad would kill us if he saw us just leave it all out."

"Even God rested, Sammy," Dean said. "Come on. Sit down, we'll find a movie we can watch. Dad will never know we took a few hours off."

Sam sighed but Dean knew that after being up most of the night, the kid was too tired to argue. He found the Star Wars trilogy amongst Martin's movies and put it on. Sam curled into Dean's side, falling asleep halfway through. Dean wasn't surprised. He and Sam had both had moments over the night where their eyes had crossed, their lids had fallen, and they were awoken with a jerk as the other shook them before their father could notice them slacking.

Sam had been frustrated, wanting to research far more than pack the weapons bag, but Martin had insisted that whatever they were hunting was above the paygrade of a ten year old. Dean nearly said that everything about the supernatural was above the paygrade of a ten year old, but he had better sense than that. Their dad had been on them hard lately about responsibility and the family business. While Dean took every word to heart, it all took its toll on Sam, and Dean would do whatever he could to protect Sam from Dad's wrath.

Halfway through the second movie, his stomach rumbled and he slipped out from under his brother, laying him comfortably down on the couch with a rough wool blanket for cover. He didn't know when Sam would wake for lunch but Dean was pretty sure if he didn't make something now he'd fall asleep before he could. Rummaging through the cabinets, he nearly squealed with delight. He was used to motel rooms with his father's typical - mac & cheese, hot dogs, canned peas, and stews. But apparently, Martin knew how to stock a kitchen, and Dean pulled out ingredients and spices for Sam's favorite, chicken parmesan.

The smells must have woken Sam, because he came padding over, rubbing his eyes. "Looks as good as it smells," Sam said with a still sleepy smile.

Dean was a good cook when he wanted, had the ingredients, and the time. Those moments were rare, but the boys would savor them.

"Go clean up the table so we have someplace to sit."

Dean hummed, crushing some herbs to mix into the marinara, when his brother called out in a quiet panic that sent a terrifying sense of dread through him.

"Dean..."

Fifty scenarios of what could be wrong flew through Dean's head in the second it took for him to turn to his brother. But there was no monster ready to strike, no spirit, no man holding Sam at gunpoint. There was just Sam, staring down at the now clean table, frozen in place, like he'd seen a ghost.

Then Dean's eyes widened. Silver bullets. Twelve of them. Six for each revolver. Sitting there, out in the open, waiting to be packed into the duffles they'd readied for their dad and Martin.

It had been so late. They had been so tired. And this morning the bullets had been buried underneath the leather Martin stored his guns in.

Sam started to shake. "Dean, what if-"

Suddenly Dean's whole body felt ten times heavier, but he couldn't let Sam see it. "It's no big deal, Sammy," Dean said, going over to ruffle the kid's hair. Anything to get him to loosen up. "They have plenty of other weapons, they probably won't even need these. There was nothing in the research about them needing silver for sure."

"And if they do? What if they die because of us?"

Dean crouched down and looked Sam straight in the eye, trying to calm him. "They're fine. Don't you worry. Something like this won't kill 'em." It had great potential of killing him and Sam if their dad found out, but he kept that to himself. "Dad and Martin have a million tricks up their sleeves. Now…" He stood up and held one hand at the edge of the table and swept the bullets into his palm. If somehow their dad got home without realizing their mistake, there was no way he was just going to leave out the evidence to be found. "Let's do something with these."

"You're gonna lie?!"

"I'm not gonna lie, I'm gonna pack them safely away until we need them." Ignoring the look on his brother's face, Dean slid the bullets into the hidden pocket he'd created in his duffel and closed it up. He should get in touch with Bobby. He knew he should. But then their dad would know for sure, and this way, he at least had a chance of saving his brother's behind. And if his dad did find out, well, Dean was sure he'd get the worst of it now. "There. Now finish up with that table Sam. I cooked a meal fit for gentlemen, so we are gonna sit down and eat as if we qualify."

* * *

"I call."

Sam threw three pennies into the pot. Sure he had a pair, but 8's were risky and he was saving up for a skateboard. Every penny mattered.

"Last deal," Dean said and flipped another card toward him. It had been two days since their dad and Martin had gone, and the small amount of change they'd been gambling with had exchanged hands multiple times. Sam was determined to be the last one with it when the hunters returned.

' _Please be an eight, please be an eight,'_ Sam thought, turning the card over, and when it was, he couldn't help but grin.

One look at him and Dean tossed his cards to the center. "I fold. You really need to work on those tells, Sammy."

Sam knew Dean was right, but he was just happy to take the pot. Dean slid the cards over to him. "Your deal."

Sam started to shuffle, but the cabin door handle jiggled, the lock popped and a very worn out Dad and Martin came through the door, duffels slung over their shoulders.

"Dad!" Sam shouted with excitement, rising out of his chair to run to his dad and give him a hug as he always did after a hunt. But then he noticed that while Dad may have been walking, Martin was limping and his face wore a scowl. The bandage around the hunter's thigh was obvious, even under his clothes.

Sam lowered himself back into his seat and snuck a worried glance toward his brother. His heart picked up speed. Martin was limping and it was probably his and Dean's fault and they were in so much trouble.

Dean either didn't see or, far more likely, was going to try to fake his way out of it. "Hey, what happened?"

"Monsters happened, Dean," Dad said, stepping closer, and it was then that Sam noticed the dark look on his Dad's face. It made Sam's stomach flip. "Monsters that could only be killed with silver."

Sam's eyes went wide and his pulse raced. Dad knew. Dad knew that they hadn't packed right and they were so going to get it. He wasn't sure how Dean was managing to keep his cool.

"You didn't have enough?" his older brother asked with all the innocence he could muster.

Dad grabbed Martin's duffle from him and dropped it, along with his own, on the table, right in front of the boys. "No, Dean. We didn't have enough. We didn't have any because you and your brother couldn't manage to do your jobs right."

Dean was right, Sam's tell was terrible, but he knew his bluff would be even worse. Or maybe he was just smart enough to know that Dad already knew the truth, and lying would just dig their grave deeper. "We're so sorry, Dad," Sam said and Dean turned to him, eyes blazing. "We realized after you'd left that morning that I hadn't packed the silver bullets-"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "You knew?" Sam immediately shut his mouth, but it was too late. Dad's glare turned cold as it shifted to Dean and he asked again, the accusation piercing his words. "You knew?"

It was obvious to everyone in the room the calculations and scenarios running through Dean's head and Sam could see the moment when Dean realized that lying was just going to make it a thousand times worse for both of them. "Yes, sir."

"And you didn't think it would be important to let us know? Try and get in touch with Bobby?" Both boys were frozen in silence. "It's bad enough that neither one of you did your job," he said, flashing a glance at Sam that made him shiver. "But Bobby could have found a way to let us know you'd forgotten to pack the silver. So we didn't go in blind. Did you even try to get in touch with him?"

Lowering his eyes to the table, Dean shook his head. "No, sir."

"Because you were afraid of getting in trouble. Of Sam getting in trouble. You thought, just maybe, if we didn't need it, you could get away with it. Is that right?"

If there was a hole in the floor, Sam was sure his brother would have crawled inside it. "Yes, sir," Dean whispered.

Suddenly their father's furious glare turned to him. "Did you even make the bullets, Samuel?"

"Yes, sir!" he defended himself. "I just-"

John didn't want to hear any excuses. "Where are they now then?"

Sam couldn't help it. He automatically looked toward his brother. Dean's eyes were on the table, his hands gripping it so hard his knuckles were turning white. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to force himself to look at their dad. "In my duffle. Hidden."

"Far from our eyes if we hadn't realized," John concluded astutely.

Tears filled Sam's eyes as he listened for his brother's muted, "Yes, sir." He knew Dean well enough to know that in hiding the evidence, he'd been trying to protect Sam's ass far more than his own.

"Sam," John said, turning back to his youngest, and the boy's heart leaped in his chest. "I want you to go change into your pajamas and wait for me in the corner." Resigned, Sam stood but then his father continued, voice strikingly harsher. "Dean." Sam and Dean both froze at the sound, and the suspicious silent exchange Dad had with Martin before turning back. "Dean, you are to go out to the Impala and grab a knife. Then you'll cut yourself a switch from the hickory, prepare it, and meet me in the woodshed."

Sam would have sworn Dean stopped breathing. Neither of them had ever been switched before, but they both knew it was the worst punishment they could ever get.

"Dad," Sam protested, but one seething look from his father stopped his lips.

"I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you, Sam, you're in enough of your own trouble," Dad warned. "Now, I believe I gave my orders, boys, I suggest you follow them before I add insubordination-"

Both boys were up and out of their seats in a second. Sam nearly ran to their bed to grab his pajamas then went to the bathroom to change. He could barely breathe and he worried he might be sick. He didn't know if he was more worried about his butt or Dean's, but he gripped the counter to try and get control of himself. Even if his dad took off his belt, it would be nothing compared to the switch and this had all been his fault in the first place. If he'd just done his job right, none of this would be happening.

It took all of his strength to stop himself from hiding, but finally he changed his clothes and walked out the door. Making his way to the corner, Sam could hear his father and Martin behind the closed door of the guest room, quiet murmurs growing heated for a second before nearing whispers again. He turned to the wall, the smell of cedar filling his nose as he pressed it into the living room corner of the log cabin. He breathed it in. There was a certain calming aspect to the scent, though the sound of the bedroom door opening wiped any of that away. Heavy footsteps moving toward him echoed in his ear.

"Come here, Sam," his father ordered.

Sam turned slowly in the darkening shadow-filled room to find his father standing tall at the foot of the boys' bed. Someday, Sam hoped to be as tall as his dad, but dragging his feet to stand before him, looking up into eyes more disappointed than angry, Sam felt like he'd shrunk a foot. His insides twisted and he swallowed hard, but he forced himself not to drop his eyes to the ground.

Dad's arms were crossed and his face was hard and any semblance of courage Sam was trying to hold on to melted to the floor.

"I think you owe Martin and me an explanation."

It was only in that moment that Sam noticed Martin out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the wall outside the master bedroom, watching Dad reprimand him. Was he going to watch his punishment too? Sam felt the flush rise in his cheeks.

"I…" He turned back to his dad before he let his embarrassment turn to anger. He hated that he spent his days packing weapons bags instead of reading and he hated that his dad was always leaving him and Dean for a hunt. He hated that he was left behind in a log cabin in the middle of the woods instead of somewhere he could go to school, do theater and debate club, play chess instead of poker. He had lost his mom and all he wanted was a dad like other dads who worked and brought home money so they could eat and stay in one place. "I don't know," he whispered.

"You know better than that, young man. _I don't know_ is never an honest answer, and if you can't even give me that, how am I supposed to trust you?"

"It's because he thinks he's better than us," Martin piped up. "Boy thinks he's too good to do a hunter's job."

Sam's hands fisted, but there was too much truth in Martin's words to refute it. He knew it, his father knew it. A voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Dean told him to just shut up and let it go, he was going to be put over his father's knee anyway, and he knew that voice was right. He knew arguing back would do nothing but make it all worse. And yet, there was nothing he could do to save his honor but lash out.

"And maybe _you_ think you're too good to check your own equipment before a hunt, instead of relying on two kids to do it for you!" Sam snapped.

"See, John, I told you-"

"Okay, that's enough." John grabbed Sam's arm and forced his attention back to him. "I was going to give you the respect of asking Martin for privacy, but you've just lost that. Trust and respect. Care to lose anything else before I start?"

Sam just shook his head, tears starting to fall. Without hesitation, John sat down on the bed and pulled Sam over his knee and in position in one fluid motion. The spanking began quickly, John peppering each cheek from the top down to his sit spots. It wasn't the worst he'd gotten, it didn't even compare to what Dean would soon get, but the thin fabric of his pajamas offered Sam virtually no protection from his dad's stinging slaps. Against his better judgment, he kicked and bucked but it took nothing for John to slip a leg over his and hold him down. "Stop fighting. You were given a job, Samuel. An important job."

"Dad, please!"

"I thought you were old enough and smart enough and responsible enough to handle it, but you proved me wrong."

"I am!" Sam cried as his Dad's heavy hand took aim at the tops of his thighs. "I'm sorry!"

"If I give you a job to do, I expect it to be done!" John landed another hard smack on each of his sit spots.

"Owww….yes, sir."

"This isn't a game, Samuel. These things are life and death." He gave Sam two more hard smacks.

"I know, I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry too, son," John said, pausing with a hand on Sam's back. "I'm sorry that we couldn't just be finished with your spanking right now. I'm sorry that you couldn't just accept the punishment you deserved for being irresponsible without lashing out at Martin. But I can't let that go." Dad pulled down Sam's pajama pants and bared his bottom.

"No!" Sam screamed, reaching a hand back to cover himself.

Without missing a beat, John grabbed Sam's hand, held it tight against his back, and punctuated the remainder of his lecture with a spanking that felt like he was setting fire to Sam's skin. "Samuel Winchester. You will not. Disrespect. Another Hunter. Ever. Again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sam sobbed.

John quickly pulled his pants back up and rubbed Sam's back until the boy had calmed down. Sam sniffled, and when his breathing slowly regulated, John helped him off his lap and held him as tight as Sam would let him. "There is honor in being a hunter, Sam. It's important work. And I know that you're more than capable of completing the tasks and following the orders I give you. We need you, me and Dean, even if the job seems small or unimportant to you. There's no room for error in what we do."

"I know, Dad." Sam pulled away and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'll do better next time."

John gave a soft smile. "I know you will. Now I want you to get into bed," he said, reaching up to pull back the covers, "while I go deal with Dean."

Sam crawled up the bed and slipped underneath the comforter, careful not to scrape his sore bottom. He looked up at his dad. "Are you really gonna switch him?" His stomach twisted at the thought.

John went around the bed and gave his youngest a kiss on the forehead. "I suggest you worry about apologizing to Martin while I'm gone and let me worry about your brother. Okay?"

Sam nodded, but it wasn't okay at all, he thought as his father walked out the door. Tears started to form just thinking about what Dean was about to go through.

"You oughtta quit your crying," Martin said and Sam looked at him.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Sam said softly, and he was. Martin had been out there, trusting that Sam had done his job to protect him, so he could protect his Dad, and Sam had failed both of them.

Martin wasn't overly moved by the boy's apology, though. "Not as sorry as you should be, if you ask me. Not as sorry as your brother's gonna be, that's for damn sure. I told your daddy that he oughtta take both you boys out to the woodshed for what you'd done, but he thought you were too young." Martin eyed him, waiting for a response but Sam didn't give him one and the hunter thankfully left his lecture at that. "I'm gonna take a nice, long, hot shower to clean this leg out. I suggest you listen to your daddy and stay right where you are."

Sam said nothing and looked away, playing with the fabric of his pillowcase as he waited for Martin to go into the bathroom. Martin was right. He was the one who'd messed up and he deserved the switch far more than Dean did. He heard the water turn on for the shower, and he got up and looked out the window of the cabin. He didn't see Dean, but in the distance, he could see the shadow of the woodshed. And by the moonlight, he could see his dad walk inside.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I would love to hear what you think before I post chapter 2! Please let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning** : **Corporal Punishment/** **Switching** **of** **a** **teenager**

* * *

The melody of crickets chirping and owls calling and a knife, scraping off the last shreds of leaf and bark, were the only sounds that filled the dark woodshed. There really was nothing left to strip off the hickory switch Dean had finally decided on, the diameter about equal to the boy's pinky. Tucked deep inside, hidden in shadow, back to the door, Dean sat on a cut tree stump, shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. On another day, the stump would be chopped for firewood or sculpted into something beautiful. Today it just held a scared boy, switch in his hand, kicking at the leaves at his feet that he had whittled away.

Hands shaking in the darkness and chill, he'd carefully examined the hickory tree outside Martin's cabin, searching for a sturdy branch that would bend, not break. He didn't know if he was more scared or sorry, but it didn't truly matter why the tears fell when he'd wiped them away on his sleeve. He had to be stronger than that. Through the thin glass windows of the cabin, Dean could hear Sam's sobs at the smack of his father's hand, and it ached so much it pierced his heart. Sammy didn't deserve this. He'd made an honest mistake, born of youth and exhaustion. It was Dean who had chosen to deliberately cover it up. To put his father at risk. It was Dean who deserved his father's wrath.

He felt the presence of his father in the shed before he heard him, and Dean straightened his back, his breath catching in his throat. Try as he might, he couldn't lift his chin. His father's heavy footsteps on the wooden floor echoed in his ears and all rational thought disappeared, nothing but sheer panic washing over him. Well, almost nothing. One worry always plagued him, no matter what.

"Is Sammy okay?"

"Just a spanking over my knee, Dean, he's fine. And I love how much you protect him," John said, sitting down behind him. "But someday, you need to start thinking about the other people around you too."

Dean had no doubt his father was right, but still, the reassurance that Sam was okay lifted a tiny ounce of the pain weighing him down. But there was still so much more, and now the guilt returned.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I know I should have gotten in touch with Bobby, let him know so he could have warned you. I just...Sam's just a little kid and he was trying and he was so tired, we both were, and I thought, if you didn't have to know-"

"Turn around and look at me."

Dean closed his mouth, and through the heaviness of his fear and guilt, he did as he was told, forcing himself to meet his father's eyes.

John fixed him with a harsh staree. "Sam is not a little kid, Dean. He's nearly eleven and old enough to take responsibility for his own mistakes. You think I don't know he was tired? You think I'm not gonna take that into consideration? Sure it stings now, but he's not even gonna feel that spanking in the morning, Dean. But, you?"

Dean knew. He was going to feel his punishment for far longer than he wanted.

"You want to really protect your brother? Then you help him not make the mistakes in the first place by doing _your_ job, and you let him deal with the consequences of his actions when he does mess up. You don't lie and cover up and risk my life and the lives of other hunters after the mistake is made. Understood?"

Hearing it said out loud, of course he understood. "Yes, sir."

"There's more to the family business than being a soldier in the field, Dean, and if you want to hunt with me you need to be able to do a hell of a lot more than shoot a gun straight. Research, memorizing spells, and cleaning and packing the weapons are all vital jobs. Life or death jobs, even if they don't seem like it to you. We're a team whether we're all out on the hunt together or not. I count on you, son. And I need to know you've got my back. I have to be able to trust you."

"I know. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry. I got lazy. And tired. And I didn't think it through and I almost got you killed. You and Martin. He must hate me. I swear it will never happen again."

"I'm sure it won't," John said. "As for Martin, you take your licking like a man and he'll give you his full respect."

"If anything ever happened to you...because of me..." The thought of losing his dad...Sam would be taken away from him. He couldn't stand it. "I'd never forgive myself. Never."

"You know, the minute we realized those silver bullets weren't packed, Martin thought you both deserved a trip to the woodshed. But that wasn't my plan for either of you. Not until I realized you'd left us out to dry. Now a few smacks of the belt has turned into this." John stood up, wiped his palms on his jeans and held out his hand. "Let me see it."

"Yes, sir." Dean swallowed hard and looked down at the switch in his hand. To him it looked brutal. And not nearly as much as he deserved.

Dean watched his dad examine his workmanship. "Good size, nicely stripped." John whipped it through the air and Dean's heart flipped at the sound alone. "Good swing. Well done, son."

Dean let out a breath. At least he could do that right.

Dean had never been switched before, but he knew how to cut one. Last year Sam had stayed with Uncle Bobby while Dad had taken Dean out on a simple salt and burn. Waiting for the darkness to fall and the cemetery to empty, they'd sat beneath a willow tree. John had reached up and cut a branch.

" _Ah, this brings back memories. The first time I'd cut a switch I was fourteen," John shared in a hushed tone. "My grandmother sent me out. Had no one teach me, figured it out by trial and error."_

" _I don't ever want to cut a switch," Dean said, eyes wide._

 _John laughed and pulled out his knife. "I don't want you to either. But it's better to be prepared than left out to dry."_

Dean looked now at the hearty switch he'd cut, held in his father's strong hand. In that cemetery had been the first time Dean had realized that there was something worse than his father's belt that he could someday earn. He hadn't known then what it could be that would make his father use one. He knew now. "You oughtta swing that thing as hard as you can until you can't move your arm anymore."

"Dean, come here."

Dean got up and, dragging his feet with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he stood before his dad.

John's lips were tight. His eyes stern and the wrinkles in his face held disappointment that was worse than anything else his father could say or do. John reached out and laid a firm hand on Dean's shoulder. "I promise you, son, I will give you the whipping you deserve. But only what you deserve. You gotta trust me on that, okay?"

Dean nodded. "Yessir." He trusted his dad with everything.

"Good man," John said. He reached out with the switch and tapped a tree stump the height of a chair. "Pants down and hands on the stump, please."

Swallowing down the fear that threatened to freeze him in place, Dean walked over. His pulse was racing and his hands were shaking so much his fingers could barely undo the button of his jeans. ' _I deserve this. Dad could have been killed_ ,' he kept repeating in his head as he lowered his clothing to his knees. He reached up unconsciously, fisting his shirt in his hands, tugging it down in one last moment of self-protection, before he took a deep breath and bent over.

The stump was smooth under his palms but he reached out to grip the sides as tight as he could, his nails trying to dig in. The bark bit into his fingertips. His hands were shaking and his knees were weak. It was all he could do to stay in position, and his dad hadn't even started yet.

Blood rushed through his ears like a river, but it wasn't loud enough to block out the whistle that cut through the air only seconds before a line of fire erupted across his backside. His ears rang with the pain of the strike and his knees buckled, hitting the stump. Still holding on, he crouched down and rested his forehead against the wood; hiding his tears, regaining his breath.

He flinched as he felt the thin branch press softly on his hip. "Back in position, soldier."

He would have expected his father's wrath to rain down on him for insubordination, but his Dad just waited him out. Part of Dean wanted to scream that he wasn't a soldier, he was just a kid. The thought of another hit was unbearable. He wanted to beg, scream, he even wanted to run. But the other part of him wanted to be a soldier; fight side by side with his father.

He wanted more than anything to prove he could be the man his father wanted him to be.

As soon as he felt he could stay steady, he straightened his legs, returning to his proper position. His father spared him no more time, or maybe it was mercy not making him wait, and whipped the switch back across backside. It fell just below the first stripe, but this time Dean held strong, letting only a small grunt escape. The sting was intense, but what was even worse was the itch starting to build from the first strike. He tried to wrap his head around the mix of raw sensations when two more lines were quickly seared into his skin.

He couldn't hold back a hiss of pain this time. Eyes closed, tears trickling down his cheeks, he couldn't see or hear but he could feel it anyway, his father drawing back the switch to deliver yet another lash. He tried and failed to choke back his sobs as pain just filled his whole body, his father now aiming for his sit spots. His skin pulled tight between his thighs and his backside, the switch fell again and again along the crease and it took everything Dean had inside him not to scream, because he knew he couldn't. This was the pain his father would have felt if the monster had torn him apart, and Dean deserved to feel every second of it.

"Shhh, it's okay, you're okay," he heard his father whispering in his ear. Dean wasn't sure when the whipping had ended and he'd been pulled into his father's arms, but realizing it didn't make his tears stop, he just cried harder into his father's flannel.

"I'm so sorry, it won't ever happen again," he promised. He would never be as careless again, put his father at such great risk.

"I know," John said, rubbing his back. "I know you won't. We all make mistakes, Dean, but learning from them is what matters. I know I have."

Dean pulled back at that, wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve. "What do you mean?"

John ran his fingertips through Dean's hair, wet with sweat and tears, and chuckled. "Well, your little brother was kind enough to point out, at the most inopportune time I should say, that Martin and I should have checked our own equipment before we went out. And the fact is, he's right. It's your job to check your brother's work, but it's my job to check yours. And I didn't do that."

Dean's jaw nearly dropped, but the gasp of surprise came from just outside the woodshed. His father clearly hadn't heard it, but Dean had always been more attune to his little brother than their dad.

"Sammy?" Dean called. "Sammy, I know you're there listening, so come on out."

There was nothing for a second, then Sam's little face, the dried trail of tears painting his cheeks, peeked around the open door of the shed.

"Thought I told you to stay put," John said, but any anger had been drained out of him.

Sam looked down, then stepped forward into the moonlight. Dean realized he was holding something in his hands. "I…I brought you pajama bottoms. It's a long walk back to the cabin when…you know…"

"When your butt's blistered?" Dean couldn't help but smile. "You can say it, Sammy."

Sam stopped just inside the door, clearly starting to say something but with one tiny glance at his father he held his tongue. Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Dad and raised his eyebrows.

John took the hint. "You boys have five minutes and then I want to see both of you inside going to bed. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," they answered simultaneously.

Sam never took his eyes off his Dad as he walked by and Dean knew he was sure he'd be swatted for disobeying. But John just went past and closed the door on his way out. Sam turned to Dean, the tension in his shoulders falling loose, and threw him the pajamas. "Dad shouldn't have-"

Dean caught them. "Yes, he should have, Sam." He tried not to, but he winced as he took off his jeans and put on the pajamas. The intensity of the pain had already started to settle, though he knew he'd be feeling the whipping for a couple of days. "I deserved the switch and everything Dad gave me. And I'll tell ya something, Sammy. I don't think I'll ever put a gun in a duffle again without making sure the bullets are packed first."

Sam lowered his head. "Then you think I deserved it too. That Dad should have-"

"No," Dean said immediately, walking over. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder and despite the painful pull on his skin he leaned down so they were eye to eye. "No, you shouldn't be having to do any of this."

"But I'm a Winchester."

"You're a kid. And I want you to be a kid for as long as you can. Yes, you deserved a spanking for being irresponsible with a job Dad gave you to do. But that's it. Their lives depend on me doing my job. Me, not you. Okay?"

Sam looked away. "Martin said that Dad should have taken us both out to the woodshed."

"Martin's a good hunter, Sam, but ain't nobody taking you out to the woodshed on my watch. Nobody. Ever." The very thought made Dean's chest ache. "Come on, we better get back before our five minutes run out. I don't know about you, but I can't take another swat on top of this."

They walked back together, Sam's watchful eye on Dean every step. Dean wanted to tell him to stop, but he understood. Sam looked out for him as much as he looked out for Sam. Dean didn't want it that way. He wanted Sam to have everything Dean couldn't, everything Dean had lost the moment Mom had died. But that was an impossibility they would both have to come to terms with some day.

Not today though. They got back to the cabin, past the hickory that would never look the same to Dean again, and he quickly shuffled Sam into bed. His Dad and Martin were quietly cleaning their guns at the table when Dean walked over.

"I'm sorry, Martin," Dean said, keeping his head high. "I won't let you down again, I promise."

Martin looked over at John before turning back to Dean and held out his hand. "I'm sure you won't, son," he said.

Dean nodded and shook his hand, not missing the pride on his father's face. He got ready for bed, carefully sliding in next to Sam. His little brother curled into him immediately and Dean held him close, despite the pressure on his own painful skin. Old habits died hard. He'd keep protecting Sam, from everything he could for as long as he could. And that most definitely included the woodshed.


End file.
